


Restless Hands

by Loudest_Voice



Series: MCU One-shots [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anger, Bullying, Cats, Fat Shaming, Gen, High School English Class, Literary References, Social Anxiety, Warnings in End Notes, general anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson Fisk away from Hell's Kitchen, learning about himself and the world. Also, a sweet English teacher, a cat, and some bullies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restless Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Technically happens before [this one-shot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5099168), but the two stories don't really have anything to do with each other. 
> 
> Detailed warnings at end notes.

Wilson loves and loathes his temporary home.

The clean air does wonders for the stuffy nose he never considered anything besides natural in Hell’s Kitchen. His aunt and uncle never raise their voices, neither at him nor at each other. The food passes through him without discomfort, except on days when everything inside is twisting around, trying to escape him. At their house, at least, no one calls him fat, dull, or stupid. The cat seems to know when his hands start shaking and it always climbs onto his lap and meow’s until Wilson’s heart and breath calm.

The small town school is not much different than the crowded building where Hell’s Kitchen’s vicious teens prowled. Athletes still rule, invisible kids still pass through the halls as ineffective as ghosts in a world without magic. Stout, deceptively flabby kids like Wilson still emit vulnerability to every predator in miles.

“Head up, fatso!” Glade Johnson shouts, more to his buddies in the football team than to Wilson himself, a second before grabbing Wilson’s neck and pushing against a locker. Someone (cheerleaders? the short, skinny kid following the football team around? teachers? janitors? anyone? everyone?) giggles.

Still, it’s better than school back at Hell’s Kitchen.

Ms. Ellison, a young English teacher with golden curls smiles at Wilson when he stays behind in class. He always waits as long as possible before going out into the hallway, hoping that a significant number of classmates has found their next room.

“What’s your favorite subject?” Ms. Ellison asks Wilson one day.

Wilson rushes out the room, more frightened of the friendly words than of anything the bullies had ever shouted at him, or anything his father has ever threatened. He runs into someone, and doesn’t realize it’s the quarterback until there are hands gripping his shirt and slamming him against a locker.

“Watch where you’re _going_ , blubberhound!” the quarterback spits in Wilson’s face, blue eyes narrow and pointed nose flaring.

Wilson, his heart still doing jumping jets in his throat, pushes back with all his strength. The quarterback lands on his ass and palms, smaller than Wilson’s ever seen him.

Wilson hears a keening wheeze coming from somewhere, then realizes it’s coming from himself. A door opens and Ms. Ellison’s voice dances in the air, a warning edge in her usually soft tone. Wilson runs, pushing through the quarterback’s cronies.

That night, he runs from the dinner table and vomits before he makes it to the bathroom. He flinches when his aunt lays a hand between his shoulderblades, expecting a blow that never comes. The kitty stays with him all night, curled besides his back, but it does little to calm his restless hands. More than once, Wilson imagines turning over, grabbing the cat by the throat, and flinging against the green walls of his borrowed room.

But it’d be hard to wash green blood off the soft green.

His aunt offers to let him stay home from school next morning, but a rough voice floats through him and reminds him that real men don’t bow their heads to _nobody_. So Wilson goes to school, gaze high and hands in his pockets so no one sees them shaking. He slices through the middle of the hallway instead of scurrying to the corners, as is his instinct. Looking back on it, that habit probably made it easier for people to ram him against walls and lockers.

Wilson doesn’t run into the quarterback and his entourage. He’s reluctant to thank anything for luck, then is vindicated when he learns that the football team is just off for an away game at a neighboring city. Either way, he’s relieved. Then his chest tightens and his hands curl into fists so hard that his nails dig into his palms. He plans to walk out of English class the moment the bell rings, then and every day forth, but sweet Ms. Ellison asks him to stay behind.

The stone of rage and wavering confidence that had settled on Wilson’s belly overnight drops out from under him the instant she starts walking to his desk at the back of the class. Her eyes are soft and her arms crossed at the small of her back, but Wilson has to start counting his breaths, praying that they don’t sputter out of him in wheezes if he tries to talk.

“Wilson,” she starts, sitting on the chair in front of him. “I really liked your essay about _Of Mice and Men_.”

It’s so far removed from what Wilson expected that, for a moment, he forgets to be scared about what might happen to his lungs and mouth.

“Most students--” Ms. Ellison pauses, narrow shoulders frozen in a way that remind Wilson of something . . . of himself wishing he could shrink into a wall. “I mean, everyone has excellent ideas of their own, of course, but you’re the only one who argued that Lennie, soft as he might be, has strength beyond the physical.”

Wilson doesn’t understand what she’s saying. At the moment, he’s not sure he remember who or what Lennie even is.

“Anyway,” says Ms. Ellison, shaking her head in a way that Wilson recognizes is for herself rather than him. “I just wanted to say I like your essays and, if you’re interested, there’s other books I think you should read. Not for assignments or anything, just for fun.”

Reflexively, Wilson nods. Ms. Ellison beams, then walks to her desk with bouncing steps and brings him a copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_. “It’s much longer and denser than Of Mice and Men, but still an enduring classic. And if you get through it now, it might help in college.”

Wilson never considered he might go to college. Even thinking it makes the rough, angry voice that leaves inside him scoff. Still, he takes the book home and when his hands start shaking, the phantom itch of bloodstains burning on his cheeks, he reaches for the book with the hand that’s not looking for his aunt’s cat.

He sees the quarterback out of the corner of his eye next morning. The urge to scurry to a corner returns but Wilson takes a shallow breath, squares his shoulders, and walks in the middle of the hallway. That day, he tries to convince himself to raise his hand during Ms. Ellison’s class, determined to speak his mind about Mr. Gatsby’s feelings.

But he can’t. His throat snaps shut like a mousetrap and the muscles of his arm freeze. Ms. Ellison catches his eyes and it’s like someone ties bricks around his forehead and drags his gaze to his cheap sneakers. When the bell signaling the end of the period rings, Wilson jumps to his feet and practically runs over the students sitting in front of him in his haste to escape the classroom.

Outside, he runs into the quarterback.

Wilson grabs him before the bastard can so much as decide to open his mouth. He says, voice as steady as his father’s, but softer and much calmer, “I know what brain splatter looks like.”

“Hey!” Ms. Ellison’s sharp tone slices through Wilson like lightning. He drops the quarterback’s neck and stands limp, all strength seeped out of him. “What’s going on out here?”

“N-nothing,” says the quarterback, his pitch high and uncertain. “Just fooling around, Ms. Ellison. Boys will be boys and all that. Haha.”

“Well,” says Ms. Ellison. Wilson doesn’t have to look back to know that her shoulders are tense and her eyes darting to the floor. “No horsing around. Go on, get to class.”

Wilson doesn’t shake the night. He pets the cat because it feels nice, not because he needs a distraction. When his aunt asks what he’s reading, he ignores a reflexive urge to hedge away from her. Instead, he tells her about the Joads, about what he imagines they must feel when their crops fail and they have to leave everything they’ve ever known behind.

“They’ll need to be hard,” he says, imagining that it’s Ms. Ellison sitting in front of him. “The world belongs to hard people.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Wilson has vague memories about his father's . . . uh, death. He also has vague memories of past emotional and physical abuse. He has several instances of near panic attacks and suffers a few moments of social awkwardness. And he's physically bullied and called fatphobic names. I think that about covers it. 
> 
> On another note, I'm currently babbling about Daredevil on [my blog](http://www.dynamicallyopposed.com/). Up to episode five so far.


End file.
